


Forgiveness in time

by WritingOutLoud



Series: Forgiveness in time [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode Fix-It: s03e03 His Last Vow, F/M, M/M, Rosie doesn’t exist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:29:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26303455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingOutLoud/pseuds/WritingOutLoud
Summary: When John finds out that Mary is a liar, he realises he married the wrong person.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Forgiveness in time [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1911142
Comments: 32
Kudos: 106
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock, HolmesCon Writers Collection





	Forgiveness in time

When Mary enters Leinster Gardens, she’s a different person. Her stride is longer; her shoulders more relaxed. She stands calm with a gun in her hand. It’s lowered to the ground, but her fingers are hovering over the trigger; ready to finish the job. 

It’s disconcerting seeing her, like finding a teacher outside of school. She doesn’t fit this narrative; this is not the person I believed her to be. Yet here she is, completely at ease with the prospect of killing a man. 

I’m sat at the far end of the corridor, blanketed in darkness. I’ve turned my collar up and ruffled my hair, trying to add to the illusion that it’s Sherlock sat here and not me. I can hear their phone call through an earpiece; the way they show off to each other as if this is a perfectly normal thing to be doing. Perhaps it is, for her. 

“The doctor's wife must be a little bored by now” 

I clench and unclench my jaw, the headache already forming at my temples. Is it not enough that I’ve been lied to? That I’ve been lost for months, trying to understand the emotional conflict in my head, only to find that I’ve been used the whole time? Do they have to keep kicking me, flaunting their intelligence? 

The gunshot echoes in the small room, and the coin clatters with an unexpected softness. She’s good. Better than me. Which begs the question- who is this woman standing before me? Is she running towards something, or away?

When Sherlock flicks the lights back on, it’s all I can do not to walk straight out. I can’t breathe here. Everyone is far too casual about this, ignoring that we don’t know why she’s really here, who she works for. I can’t lose him again. 

As she turns, Mary’s face drops, and I can see the tears she is choking back. If it’s an act, she’s very good, and if I were a weaker man I would have broken at the sight. But I’m not. 

“Baker Street. Now.” 

My lungs relax a little at the fresh air outside. We walk in silence towards the main road, Mary continually trying to catch up with me- grasping at my hand each time she gets close as if that will magically fix everything. I snatch it away each time, walking fast to keep out of pace with her. Sherlock keeps two strides ahead, and I have to keep reminding myself that he’s been shot. He hides his pain well, but I see him wince as he hails a cab. 

I climb into the front seat, not wanting to be near the woman who claims to be my wife. The ride to Baker Street is silent; each rustle of coats and clicking of the indicator seeming loud in the tension between us. When we finally stop, I’m the first out, partly to put space between us, and partly because I know Sherlock will struggle up the stairs and won’t want us to make a big deal out of it. I know what his plan is.

To hell with the plan. 

“Is everyone I’ve ever met a psychopath?” I say as we reach the living room. I know it’s wrong, and hurtful, to call him that after years of showing me otherwise, but I can’t help myself. I need both of them to feel even a fragment of the hurt that’s rushing through me.

“Yes. Glad we’ve settled that-“

“Shut up!” My life is falling to pieces in front of me, and all Sherlock cares about is the sodding case.

It’s too much with them both here. The anger I’ve been suppressing for months is boiling up, and I don’t know who I should be directing it towards. Sherlock wants me to be rational, to deal with this calmly and then take on Magnussen. But I can’t. That’s far too much to expect of me. I’ve been manipulated for months by the woman who’s supposed to love me, and he- he won’t stop dying in front of me. 

“What have I ever done...hmm? My whole life... to deserve you?” I’m not sure who I’m directing it to. 

“Everything.” His voice breaks, and for a second I see the pain behind his eyes. Not just from his wound, but from the words I am hurling at him. I see how much he does care- how much he is trying to control the situation in an effort to make everything right again. My heart sinks, and I know that I should never have gotten married. Not to her. 

“You were a doctor who went to war. You’re a man who couldn’t stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high.” His voice keeps breaking, and though he tries to be subtle I can see him leaning heavily into the doorframe, sweat collecting along his hairline. “John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle. You’re abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people, so is it such a surprise that the woman you’ve fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?”

Of course he’s making sense. Sherlock already helped me realise that I don’t settle for normal, as much as I wish I could. It was a delusion to think that I could try to forget- that everything could be swept under the rug and I could start again with an ordinary person in an ordinary life. It’s time to accept that I will never have that. I could never cope with it. However, right now, I don’t want it to be true. I don’t want to keep falling in love with people who eventually hurt me. 

“But she wasn’t supposed to be like that. Not after-“ He knows what I mean. He’s probably always known. I didn’t want to replace him with Mary- I wanted to forget. 

“John, we have to help her.” Right. The fucking plan.

“How do you know she’s not working for someone?“ I am deflating. I know in my heart that if she were, we’d both be dead by now, but it’s harder to accept that she’s toying with me to her own advantage than because she’s been paid to. 

Sherlock doesn’t answer, already knowing that I understand the reality. Mary thinks she fell in love and is manipulating me to keep me in her life. Somehow, that seems more evil than the alternative. 

She watches me, not like someone in love who did wrong, or someone who seeks forgiveness, but with cold curiosity. Her gaze is calculating, waiting to see what I do next. I’ve seen it before. It’s how Moriarty watches Sherlock. Dark obsession. Mary isn’t apologetic- she’s not here to make things right. She’s here to protect herself. The Mary I fell in love with is never coming back- if she ever existed at all. 

“Sit.” I pull the chair out.

“Why?” She asks.

“Because this is where you sit and talk, and this is where we sit and listen, and we decide whether we want you or not.” This is the final test. The last desperate cling to my marriage. 

She fails. She sits. 

Someone who loved me, someone who cared, would not be reduced to the role of a client. They would fight, as equals, to fix this. Instead, she fits herself in the narrative she thinks I need. 

Finally, I start to accept what I’ve probably known for some time. Mary doesn’t love me. Perhaps she thinks she does, or perhaps she’s known all along that she doesn’t. Either way, Mary is playing a wicked game with me. Every action is planned to manipulate me into living out her fantasy. This time, I won’t let her win. She hasn’t met all of John Watson. Mary severely underestimates me if she thinks this is enough to keep me controlled. And she is clearly oblivious to the fact that she shot the only person I have ever loved more than her. Sherlock glances at me, and he knows. Of course, he sees it too. 

Mary hands over a USB stick, and I know I will never read it. I don’t need more reasons, she has played with me enough. There’s no going back from here. 

“How much do you know already?” She asks.

Sherlock’s deductions are hard to hear. They seem to justify her actions rather than condemn her as the liar she is. I don’t want to be in this room anymore. I want out of this case. 

“Ohh look at you two, you should have got married.” That is low, even for the circumstances. I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth and the look Sherlock gives me chills my core. I saw him at the wedding; I know how he feels. That’s not the difficult part. It’s not as easy as forgiving everything and running into his arms. 

Maybe I rushed into the marriage because I was hurting. In the beginning, I needed stability; someone to fill the void in my heart. When he came back I needed him to see that I wasn’t going to wait for him. Although I said I forgave him, a part of me can not let go of the betrayal. So I rushed, to prove that he could not expect me to come when he called. In reality, I needed time to understand how I could love two people at the same time, in different ways.   
Because I did love her. I was drowning in grief for another love lost, and she lifted me out of the dark long enough to see again. That’s what makes this so hard. 

Sherlock is struggling as he tries to explain the details of the case. His voice keeps catching and his sentences become interrupted as he gasps for breath. Mary watches with reserved attentiveness, and I’m struck once again with the absurdity of the situation.

“Enough.” I stand, helping Sherlock ease onto the floor. 

“This can wait. We’re taking you to a hospital.” Sherlock’s eyes plead with me, but he doesn’t have enough strength to argue. 

“They’re already on their way.” He whispers, and I smile because he never fails to surprise me. 

The paramedics arrive and lift Sherlock down to the ambulance. As we leave the flat I turn to Mary, still sat in the chair. 

“Don’t follow. I want you out of the house by tomorrow evening, or so help me god I will have you arrested.”

She has the audacity to smile. 

“You can’t-“ 

“You’ve never met Mycroft Holmes.” I interrupt, before shutting the door and running down the stairs. 

***

“I know what you’re planning.” I’m sat beside Sherlock’s bed in the hospital room, my chin resting on my knuckles. I can tell he’s awake. His breathing has become deeper, and his toes have started twitching beneath the blanket. This isn’t the first time he’s woken since they stabilised him, but now he should be conscious enough to remember. 

“You want to get into Appledore. You were going to use her as a bargaining chip to get in and see the vaults.” The heart monitor beeps in agreement. 

“No. She was never part of the plan.”

“So what was all that about?”

“I wanted you to hear the whole story. I deduced most of it after she shot me, but I wanted you to hear it first hand. So you know who she really is.” 

Never fails to surprise. I run a hand through my hair as I process the information.

“Thank you.” It’s not enough, but it will do. 

“Where is she now?” His fingers twitch towards his central line, as if wanting to rip it out, before deciding better of it. Instead, he closes his eyes and sinks back into the pillow. 

“Who knows. She’s gone, for good.” 

A comfortable silence stretches between us. The last year has been nothing but silence. We’ve been tiptoeing around each other, trying to pretend we're not both drowning. It’s time for it to end. 

“Sherlock, I need to be honest with you.” His eyelids flicker open. “I thought I’d forgiven you for leaving. I thought that everything was behind us and we could go back to normal. But there is no normal for us, is there?” The corners of his mouth tug into a tired smile.   
“I haven’t forgiven you for leaving. It hurt more than anything to watch you die in front of me. Every night when I close my eyes I see you hitting the pavement-” My voice catches in my throat, but I swallow and push on. “It’s going to take a long time for me to forgive you for that. But I want to. I love you. I know you know that, probably longer than I have, but I need to say it out loud.” 

It feels good to say. A small weight is lifted off my chest and I breathe a little easier. 

“We can’t be anything more, not yet, but maybe one day.” He nods in agreement. 

“Thank you for saying it,” Sherlock whispers. I smile, taking his hand in mine. He gives it a squeeze, and closes his eyes. 


End file.
